


Siren's Call

by Senket



Series: SGA-7: Detectives In Space [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft returns from the IOA meeting that will send Atlantis home and discovers something about Lestrade's DNA no one saw coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren's Call

Mycroft stumbled somnambulantly through his door, exhausted. He tumbled forward as he leaned down to tug clumsily at his shoe-laces, panic cutting through sleepiness as he overbalanced. A sharp yelp escaped him and he threw his hands out to break his fall- he never hit the ground, finding himself suddenly pressed against something warm and steady. Mycroft blinked blearily, squinting as he peered up. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Lestrade answered softly, flashing a grin as he helped Mycroft to a nearby footstool. “Tough day?”

“You’ve no idea,” he answered, swaying slightly as the detective helped him out of his shoes and jacket.

The last three weeks had been a nightmare. The IOA fancied themselves a clever coalition: in reality they were a mismatches handful of middle-management-minded, hare-brained officials all clamouring to look the brightest and to blame everyone else for the slightest problems, the very worst of government committees. He’d had to weasel and wheedle, deduce and seduce, construct and convince until they each agreed with him and each thought they’d arrived at his conclusions on their own. Somehow that ‘select’ group turned out to be more of a headache than running all of England! 

But finally, oh, finally, Atlantis had been sent back to where it belonged: Pegasus.

He was only distantly aware that Lestrade was speaking, the man appearing more amused than anything as he hung Mycroft’s jacket up before helping him back to his feet and to the bedroom. Lestrade left him to change into his nightclothes, fetching a glass of wine.

Moving far slower than he liked, Mycroft emptied his pockets into the painted ceramic bowl he kept on his bedside table and struggled into drawstring pants. Lestrade smiled when he walked back in to find Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Perhaps you should just go straight to sleep, hm?”

Mumbling in response, Mycroft took three sips of wine before stretching out on the soft mattress, feet shifting to push covers out of the way as he tried to find his way beneath him. Lestrade laughed and pecked him on the cheek before helping him out. The man shut the light and the door, taking the glass with him as he went back to the kitchen to work on his laptop. Mycroft fell asleep in seconds.

He woke again to an aquamarine glow illuminating the room, casting light across Gregory Lestrade’s fascinated expression. He suddenly remembered Richard Woolsey’s fervent thank you, the balding man pressing a pretty white stone into his hands; he’d forgotten about it, thinking it must not be terribly important to give away like that. Probably no one knew Woolsey had even had it.

Mycroft felt something cold and heavy form in his gut, fear paralysing his throat. He very suddenly hated Woolsey with ever fibre of his being.

How could he possibly hope to compare to a sentient city in another galaxy?

 


End file.
